BBC -- To Buy or Not to Buy

I am actually doing "ok" with the cloth diapering.

The extra wash doesn't seem that daunting. What seems bothersome is the actual time it takes to change a diaper.

I mean seriously I am a modern mother; I want things done like, yesterday.

Now I am curious -- since I have managed for two weeks now with the old fashioned Gerber flatfold diapers with pins and vinyl pants....should I invest in a more fancy set of diapers?

I see this as a potentially damaging habit to get into. Sort of like my penchant for buying nice suits and heels when I was working. There were suits for kicking ass, there were suits for meetings to be had, there were suits for first client meetings, there were suits for seminars.

Will I be buying diapers for every occasion? First steps diapers. First birthday diapers. Playdate diapers. Nap diapers.

Oh dear.

Should I Be Enjoying This?

I'm starting to grow into my new role.

I'm planning activities for summer vacation.

I'm budgeting for road trips.

I'm making to-do lists.

I drive my son to school in my sweats everyday, and I know the theme songs to my daughter's favorite morning cartoons by heart.

I snack on goldfish and apple juice.

I may or may not join a stroller gang. (for all intensive purposes I don't actually believe there is a physical group named "The Stroller Gang", of course if I was in charge there would be one. I simply meant stroller gang as in a group of ladies who push their tots around in strollers together at the same time to the same places)

I'm volunteering at the annual school fundraiser and am irritated with the lack of parent participation.

Who have I become?

BBC - A Rose By Any Other Name

I have logged in several hours of research on the topic of cloth diapering, and no where in my internet travels was the actual topic of poop mentioned.

I simply assumed the old saying "a rose by any other name would still smell as sweet" (or in this case "bad") would apply.

I can safely say I was wrong.

Not only does the smell seem somehow magnified from a cloth diaper, but the actual cleanup. Oh...dear.

Baby Butt Chronicles

I will be attempting (with some trepidation) to enter the wide, wonderous world of Cloth Diapering.

I will log in my adventures under the above listed monicker..."Baby Butt Chronicles".

In the End, We Are ALL Just "Moms"

While waiting through the school drop off zone line this morning (which is another blog entirely -- WHY is it SUCH a difficult concept for some people to grasp?) I happened to glance in my rear view mirror and notice a familiar face.

I'll call her "Stephanie". We went to the same high school. She was a cheerleader, and we had drama together. "Stephanie" wasn't what I would call one of my best friends, but she was definately a person I had a hard time liking.

She was in drama to get her arts credits for graduation, I was in it because it was an art I believed in.

She was born with a woman's figure, and I waited until my senior year to develop boobs.

She could walk into a room and conversate with any person, while I kept to myself and my friends.

She was a cheerleader, while I was anti-anythingtodo with pep and spirit.

She read Cosmo magazine, I read Salinger.

She spent her weekends at keg parties, I hung out at comedy improv clubs and alternative music shows.

Studying her face in my rear view mirror, my view expanded to her car, it was a mini-van. Certainly not the vehicle choice of the uuber cool girl she used to be. I could see colored school papers littering her dash, and a little girl with a backpack sitting in the front seat talking non-stop while "Stephanie" gazed out the driver's side window eyes glazing over.

Every so often she was pulled from her reverie with her daughter tugging at her sleeve, and she'd nod her head in agreement or utter a few words. I imagined she was thinking about how many loads of laundry she needed to do, reminding herself to get cat food and call the plumber.

In this moment I am reminded that who we were in high school is not the people we have become today. In high school I was bold, I was wild...I carried a empty box of chinese take-out as a purse and wore Barbie heads strung in a necklace. Now, I cannot recall the last time I wore earrings, and I carry a diaper bag instead of a purse. (even when I am not with my children...how sad is that?)

Once we become mothers, I guess the trappings of our youth are forgotten and we are all the same.

Ma'am ????

I decided to throw caution to the wind, and embrace a new experience this weekend and did my grocery shopping at a store I've never shopped at. The fact that this seemed exciting to me should speak volumes about my personal life!

As I comparisoned shopped my way through this varietal pantheon of delictable treats I realized I needed to use the "little mommies room". At first opportunity, I spied a young man wearing a name badge that said: Brad and asked where I might find the restroom. Brad straightened himself up, cleared his throat and replied: "follow this row down to aisle 4 and make a left, it's against the wall."

I thanked him and he said, "you're welcome.....ma'am."

Ma'am? When did I become a "ma'am"? My mother is a ma'am, but I didn't think I was one. When did this happen? Was it last year when I turned thirty one? Or was it maybe when I stopped baring my midriff? This isn't the sort of thing that happens steadily over time or is it? Does that sort of thing just creep up on you?

This rates along with other life milestones that suck the breath right out of you. For example, stopping at the corner gas station to pick up a six pack of beer and the attendant doesn't bother to ask for your i.d. Or enduring additional pre-natal testing due to advanced maternal age. Buying age fighting cosmetics seem to have about the same impact for me as being called ma'am by a pimply faced boy.

I had somewhat recovered from the shock by the end of my shopping trip. I decided if it was to be so, that I join the distinguished group of ladies known by strangers as "ma'am", then I would do so with my head held high.

I did however hurry out of the store once I'd paid for my groceries in case "Brad" wanted to help walk me across the street, I'm not ready to join that club yet!

A Conversation With My Son

Since my husband volunteered for overtime duty this weekend, I was on my own for completing weekend housework chores with the children.



Suffering from back pain, I begged off some duties to the children in return for "whatever they wanted" (** note for future offer something specific never tell the children I will give them whatever they want).



While I was helping Gabriel clean his room we got onto the subject of doing things well vs doing them poorly and I asked him on a whim if he thought I was a good mother. He thought about this for a moment, not knowing of course that any perceived "wrong" answer he gave me would result in his being grounded until his 45'th birthday and decidedly said..."you're ok I guess."



Engaged (and feeling this an opportunity to grow as a mother) I asked, "well what do you mean son?" "Well," he said "you're good at like doing nice stuff and taking care of me and all...but um you're kind of ummm bossy."



Amused I said, "bossy?" "Uh yeah, you know because you are always telling me what to do and stuff, I mean I know you have to, but it's just that I don't like it all the time."



I told him, "well you know Gabriel it's never going to get any easier to be told what to do. Even when you grow up and get older I'll still tell you what to do. I'll still be bossy."



"I know," he says "and even when I get married too."



"That's right" I said, "even when you get married I'll still tell you what to do, even though you are a married adult man."



"No mom, that's not what I mean. I mean that YOU will be bossy and so will my wife. So the two of you will always be telling me what to do."



Oh son of mine....you have no idea.

A School Assembly....Twice the Performance

Today I had been cordially invited to attend a school assembly / musical performance by my eight year old son Gabriel. Eager to see my eldest born stand atop risers and wow me with his melodic abilities I accepted the invitation.

As I dressed for this auspicious occasion this morning, I wondered aloud to no one in particular why schools do not do more of these "performances". I recall doing two or three per year, wherein parents and grandparents were invited with cookies and punch to follow.

Bringing my camera along to document the occasion as any good mother would, I hurried out the door with my three year old and infant. Upon my arrival at the school cafeteria I realized this performance would not be like the assemblies I remember from my youth. Parents were lined up on the sides of the room, and all available seats being taken by the students. I selected a spot along the wall where we would be able to see Gabriel enter the room, and fortunately he was placed in the front row so we could see his face throughout the performance.

The principal began to explain that in light of Monday having been Martin Luther King day, the children were prepared to sing "We Shall Overcome" as sung by Peter, Paul and Mary and so the performance began. As I listened I pondered what exactly it was that Mrs. Zent's third grade class was about to overcome....longer recess times? No more homework? Better cafeteria lunches?

I was pulled from my deep thoughts by a voice, higher in pitch than the other voices. Further, the voice seemed to not really be singing the same words the others were singing. I glanced around the room to see who or what could be making that noise, and stopped when my eyes landed on my three year old daughter, Capi.

Capi had evidently been so moved by the song that she began to sing a made up song that had no words, only noises. On and on she went, until she felt compelled to perform an interpretive dance along with her impromptu solo. Several adults within eye (and ear) shot snickered and pointed at my budding performance artiste'.

Not every mother is so lucky to see two of her children perform on the same day, in the same venue.

And So Begins My Journey as a Stay At Home Mom

After seven amazing years as a sales assistant in a brokerage firm I have hung up my suits and traded in my headset for finger paint, to be a stay at home mom for my three children ages eight, three and four months.

My plan is for this blog to be a witty interpretation of the adventures and misgivings of one stay at home mom.